


The Space Inbetween

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 19:59:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12043176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: Christian makes a space for Vincent in his feelings without even knowing it.





	The Space Inbetween

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ItsADrizzit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit/gifts).



Just because you knew something was hurdling in your direction didn’t mean you were ready for it.

Like an opposing midfielder clattering into you, leaving you breathless from the sharp jolt of pain. Or well... the fact that your team almost _almost_ were in touching distance of winning the trophy for two years running, until they got pipped to the post by Leicester, then Chelsea. 

Never did such good beginnings seemed ready made for such bad endings. 

Chris looked at the screen of his phone again, reading the message.

_We moeten spreken_

The corner of his mouth twitched with amusement, because at first blush, the message came across as blunt, to the point of rude. Only for Chris to shake his head at himself, for even thinking of being annoyed. _You’ve lived in England for too long_. 

Tapped in, _Ja, oke. Waar en hoe laat?_

A buzz. _Niet hier_

***

_Niet hier_ meant outside of their usual stomping grounds.

London though, came through in terms of new areas to stomp in; places so discreet, no one would be _gauche_ enough to take out their phone and started filming. It helped that come August, at this time of the year, most Londoners were still on holidays before returning to resume school and work. 

A bar in Spitalfields to the rescue. With hints of the speakeasy - its surroundings aglow with the colour of honey illuminated by candle light; accentuated by walls of warm wood and paneling. Moody jazz wafted around the patrons, the noise low enough to be ignored, but loud enough so that your conversations were private. 

For an extra charge, you got your own table, accompanied by a miniature sampling of the drinks order, with bits of nibbles _'inspired by the bold tastes of the 1920s but influenced by the dietary needs of now.’_ They’d jumped at the chance, of seizing a corner table for themselves, just for a bit more privacy. 

“So,” Vincent said in Dutch, as he frowned at his drink. A cocktail called ‘Cheshire Cat’, which seemed to be a creamy frothy drink the colour of sea foam in a martini glass with some sort of sparkles floating on its surface. “I had the talk with the gaffer today.”

_Ah._

“ _Ja_?” 

Chris prompted, sipping at his drink, something called a ‘Winnie the Pooh’, half expecting nothing, but surprised enough to raise an eyebrow at the taste. Whisky warm, with the hints of floral from honey and orange, the wine hijacking the taste of the floating egg. Chris smacked his lips, enjoying the simmering, fruity taste of the cocktail. 

Honestly? It wasn’t half bad.

Vincent pushed his drink away from him, leaned back in his chair, his hand resting on the table. His face furrowed in ways that Chris was now familiar with. Familiar enough for his heart to drop in the bottom of his stomach, for him to swallow hard and push his own drink aside. 

_Oh, no_

“It isn’t good news,” Vincent confirmed, his eyes on Chris, before he broke their eye contact and his gaze fell on the table briefly. “I had the chat with the _gaffer_ ,” the honorific said with bitterness. “You know the one.”

Yeah, Chris knew the one. 

When Pochettino first sat you down, he took you through his _expectations_ with Jesús on standby for any translation duties. In his three seasons at Tottenham though, Jesús spoke less in the meetings, but Pochettino still asked him to be present. 

In the first weeks of the season, with everyone coming in, you sat down and had another individual chat. Part performance review, part sounding out board about what Pochettino had in mind for you in terms of position and playtime for the season; Chris found the talks interesting and stress-free. He’d hoped against hope that this would have been the same for Vincent. That the talks worked out for him the same way they did with Jan, Toby, and Moussa. 

“What did he say?” Chris leaned forward, fingers skimming across Vincent’s upturned wrist. Sometimes, things sounded worse when you heard them the first time. Only when you sat down and chewed it over, you found the situation wasn’t so bad after all.

Vincent rolled his shoulders, ran a hand through his hair. Chris pretended not to notice the tremor in Vincent’s fingers, the way his cheeks dimpled when he -- did almost anything with his face. 

Another beat of silence, before Vincent swiped at his drink and upended it, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the movement of his throat, draining his mini cocktail in two gulps. He wiped at his mouth with his other hand, stifling a burp. 

“He said I should consider-” Vincent stopped, frowned. “There are three clubs who want me; West Bromwich, Stoke, and Brighton. For a loan deal.”

“Oh.”

“ _Doch_ ,” Vincent nodded as if Chris had argued a salient point in Dutch, instead of being rendered almost mute by said news. “Oh.”

***

“He got the talk?” Jan asked the other day after training. All four of them in the locker room in various stages of dress.

“ _Ja_ ,” Chris answered, as he pulled his t-shirt over his torso. 

“That’s rough,” Moussa nodded, his features soft with concern. “How’s he taking it?”

“You know,” Chris said weakly, dropping to the bench to put on his socks and trainers, half started as Toby dropped on the bench beside him. The rest of the locker room cleared out, except for them, the Ajax and AZ contingent in the house - excluding Vincent. “He... _is_ ,” he finished, rolling his shoulders, wincing at the tension of it all. 

“ _Doe het niet, Christiaan_ ,” Toby wagged his finger in Chris’s direction, feigning a voice like a Dutch _Opa_. 

“ _Doe wat_?” Chris answered, puzzled. 

“You can feel sorry for Vincent, just don’t get tied up over it,” Jan piped up, “like the gaffer says, _Dit is voetbal_.”

“The gaffer speaks Dutch now?”

Jan frowned, ready to open his mouth, but Moussa rested a hand on his shoulder, saying a calm _Jantje_ , before dropping to the other side of the bench beside Chris. 

“If you two start to break out in song _High School Musical_ style, I’m leaving,” Chris warned. “With or without my shoe.”

“Jan is right, you know what Pochettino is like,” Moussa continued, ignoring Chris’s threat. “If he thinks you’re not good enough, he moves you on. You know football is like this.”

 _Heartless? Cold?_ Chris wanted to say, feeling angry and humiliated on Vincent’s behalf. 

“He’s had a full season, eh?” Toby pointed out, his voice the calm of reason. “But this is Poch, _eh?_ He throws you into the deep end, and you either sink or swim. Vincent--”

“He’s had a bad beginning,” Chris admitted, each word painful, like pulling a tooth. “But even a bad beginning can have a good ending, yeah?” 

“Or a bad beginning can just go on being bad,” Jan pointed out, not unkindly. “When it’s like this, it’s best that it ends.”

Feeling his face flush with anger, Chris busied himself with putting on his trainers. Dawdled to the point that Jan and Moussa packed up their things and left, saying their goodbyes. 

Toby stayed behind, comb and gel in hand, as he styled his hair in place, looking at himself in the mirror of his locker. He turned his face this way and that, taking in all his angles, making sure that his hair was geometrically _perfect_. 

Not saying a word, Chris grabbed his bag and keys from his locker, when Toby called out to him. 

“Listen,” Toby started, after Chris stopped, and turned to face his teammate. “Vince is a great guy, but - don’t get involved.”

“I’m not involved.”

“Okay,” Toby answered in a tone of voice that said he thought otherwise, as he put his gel and comb away, and rooted around in his locker for his car fob. “Let’s say for the sake of argument, you’re involved.”

“Okay. For the sake of your argument, we can say this.”

“Vincent isn’t -” Toby cut himself off. “He isn’t a bad guy, we aren’t a bad team, sometimes... things just don’t work out.”

“I know,” Chris sighed after a full minute of silence between them.

Before Toby had the chance to say anything more, Chris walked away.

***

“Wimmer is leaving for Stoke,” Chris said that evening, as soon as Vincent opened the door to let him into his flat.

Vincent didn’t say a word for a minute, his hand on the door knob, as they looked at each other for a few beats. Vincent’s cheeks flushed, his hair damp, suggesting that he’d just showered, his t-shirt and jogging bottoms telling tales that he planned to be holed up in his flat for the rest of the night. 

Chris standing out here _like a lemon_ , as Mace would say. 

Half wondering why he was out here, on the landing of Vincent’s flat. He had had enough residual restlessness to drive to Vincent’s flat after cooling his heels at his house for some time. His energy restless enough to drive, to pay for parking on the meter, and buzzed to be let in.

Only for the first thing he said in greeting was _Wimmer is leaving for Stoke_

“I-” Chris started, wanting to erase this minute from the record, and start again. 

“Come on,” Vincent pushed the door open a bit wider, motioning Chris to come inside. Chris stepped past his friend, only to stop short at the smell which perfumed the air. 

“Is that--?” he turned to Vincent with a wide grin, his disquiet quelled.

“Cabbage and caraway seeds,” Vincent smiled in return, dimples creasing his cheeks. “I know, it’s not on my dietary plan, but-” at this, the light in his eyes dimmed a bit. “I just needed a bit of comfort. I don’t eat a lot of it, I just cook it for the smell.”

“Vincent,” Chris couldn’t help but laugh as he gently pointed out, “other people use candles.”

“ _Ja_ ,” Vincent’s smile now shy, as he ducked his head momentarily and rubbed at the nape of his neck. “If you see one with smells of cabbage and caraway seeds--”

“I’ll put it on my shopping list.”

“Okay.”

“Well, I’m here,” Chris jostled Vincent with his shoulder, feeling Vincent rolling with the movement, and after a moment, he nudged Chris's shoulder in return. Chris couldn’t stop grinning, and not wanting the moment to end, he prompted, “I haven’t eaten _kool_ in a while.”

“Ah, well,” Vincent smiled. “Since you’re here.”

Vincent’s flat was neat and tidy but had none of the things that made it feel _lived in_ , like clutter on the table tops, nor pictures on the walls. Even the shelves - where books and little knick knacks usually lived - were empty. 

The sight of the pale, bare walls tugged at Chris, as he thought about his own house that he bought in London last year, decorated with things brought by his family from Denmark, as well as little things he carried back from his travels. 

Artwork from home that hung on his walls, the sash windows large enough to let all the sunlight and the world in, with curtains to blur the view from outside. 

In comparison, Vincent’s flat had the cold, neutral impressions of the hotels they stayed at on their team travels. Attractive, but impersonal and not _home_.

He’d followed Vincent into the kitchen, and found more of the same; pots and pans the Ikea sort that came with the furnished premises. Plates with patterns which were inoffensive and nondescript. No table with chairs, just a kitchen island in the centre with high stools on either side. 

Vincent busied himself with preparing the meal for them both. His hair drying, but the flush on his cheeks still there. His lashes long and dark against his pale face and chestnut scruff- because summer in England was never truly _summer_.

“- kay?”

“Ah, didn’t get that,” Chris slapped himself lightly on the cheek. _Focus_ he chided himself in English. 

“Is the living room okay?”

“Ah, yeah.”

Five minutes later, seated on the sofa, bowls of aromatic cabbage in their laps, the TV’s volume turned down to the point of it being more like moving pictures than anything else. 

The sofa upholstered in a pale cream, the fabric faux leather, the cushions oversized bursts of colour. 

“I heard about Wimmer,” Vincent nodded through chews, “he was linked with West Brom and Stoke, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, so I’m not too out of the loop,” Vincent leaned back into the oversized back of the sofa. 

Mirroring Vincent’s move, Chris leaned into the sofa as well. Shoes off by the side of the door socked feet on the seat of the sofa. Watched as Vincent lifted a portion of cabbage with his fork. Watched his mouth as he chewed slowly, his throat as he swallowed, the soft bliss across his face at this moment in time.

 _Don’t get involved_ , Toby’s voice hissed in the back of his mind like a warning. 

“What about you?” Chris asked, dropping his scrutiny of Vincent’s face to the prepared cabbage in his bowl, his own cheeks warm with embarrassment as if Toby had been _right there_ , calling him out on his impropriety. Chris toyed with the cabbage with his fork. 

In a way, Vincent making cabbage with caraway seeds was the equivalent to the British lads having a cuppa. The act itself triggering security and well being when the environment implied differently.

“ I want to stay,” Vincent said between bites of his cabbage. “Tottenham is a top club, and I know-” as Vincent’s voice trailed off, Chris raised his head. 

This time, the look equivalent to a punch in the stomach. Vincent’s eyes big and dark in his pale face. Chris unable to move, his body rigid and quivering like a moth at the end of a pin. 

“Thank you for telling me about Wimmer,” Vincent’s voice now half shy, half self-deprecating. “No one tells me anything. I might be out of favour, but I have not left as yet.”

“I- you’re welcome,” Chris answered, words called up by rote. 

Regressing to the basics of both English and Dutch, habit taking over because his brain now disconnected at this point. Unable to think about anything beyond _now_ , wondering how he’d missed this all this time. Had the air around them always been this charged, the expression in Vincent’s eyes this open?

“Chris-” 

A click of the bowl hitting the floor, Vincent’s face centimeters from his. Close enough to see where the glints of gold in the brown iris of Vincent’s eyes. The sweep of lashes as he blinked once, his breath fragrant with the spices from the dish they’d shared. 

Chris closed the distance between them, eyes sliding closed, a murmur as their lips met. Vincent’s scruff electric against Chris’ lips, a broken moan as their tongues slid against each other. 

Vincent the first to move away, but not too far. 

Far enough to take the bowl from Chris’ shaky fingers and put to one side, his eyes wide with the wonder of _this_ \- more pupil than iris. Before Chris could even say _thank you_ , Vincent nudged forward, thumb and forefinger tugging at Chris’ lips, Chris’ fingers tangling in Vincent’s tee, drawing him closer. Vincent's tongue licking into Chris’ mouth, Chris’ hands sliding under Vincent’s shirt, fingernails biting into skin. 

The world around him shrinking into nothing but shocks and reaction. 

His breath stuttering into shaky hiccoughs as Vincent traced a path from Chris’ mouth to the area behind his ear with his tongue; his facial hair adding another texture to play. Vincent’s body all firm muscle and heat; short nails a long, gentle scratch along Chris’ back, his spine arching in response, his breathing irregular, almost stuttering. 

Vincent’s fingers hooking into the waistband of Chris’ jeans and underwear- then paused. 

Chris laid his hands over Vincent’s, waiting until their eyes met, their breaths harsh in the quiet of the room. 

With an effort bordering on extreme, Chris wet his lips with his tongue, dragging out the words slowly so that the message got through. “Don’t stop.”

***

Later, much later, Chris found himself in Vincent’s bed, naked and sprawled across the lightweight bedcovers. The room dark, but not pitch black, saved by the streetlights outside. He stirred, too content and lazy to think of anything beyond this moment, save Vincent sprawled beside him, his arm across Chris’ chest, heavy and warm.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for some time.”

“ _Wat? Aan mijn lul zuigen?_ ” Chris asked, keeping his voice light. The darkness covering the blush that stained his face and set his cheeks and neck on fire as he said those words. 

“Yes, that as well,” Vincent laughed, as he continued their conversation in Dutch, his breath a warm gust of air at Chris’ ear. “I have thought about it a lot.”

Right, Chris _had_ lived in England for too long, where people used language and tone as weapons of polite distance. Vincent’s declaration of emotion not a grand gesture, but as a matter of fact. Had he wanted him all this time? Chris couldn’t stop being stunned by the wonder of it, that Vincent had waited for an entire season to-

“Why now?” Chris asked finally, shifting his head in order to see Vincent as clearly as the dimness of the room allowed. His eyes adjusting to the darkness with each blink, Vincent’s features standing out at every turn. His eyes, his nose, his enigmatic smile. 

“I will be leaving,” Vincent answered at last, his arm leaving Chris’ chest, his fingers pressing against Chris’ lips. “There’s no way into the first team, and -”

 _I need to play_ , the sentence left unsaid, but they both knew it. The World Cup hurtling towards them with the speed and distance of a meteor. Vincent had to play, because if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be selected for _Oranje_ to play in Russia for 2018. 

“I understand,” Chris swallowed against the lump in his throat. “I wish --” his voice trailed off because it didn’t matter now- _we hadn’t waited so long_.

The expression on Vincent’s face unreadable, before he pressed, his lips against Chris'. Half mad with the emotion of it all, Chris palming the sides of Vincent’s face, angling his head to deepen their kiss. With each swipe of tongue, it stoked feelings hot, desperate and uncontrolled. 

“ _Christiaan_ ,” Vincent murmured between kisses, and it was different, so different. When Toby said the Dutch version of Chris’ name, he did it in the mock scolding tones of an _Opa_ , whereas with Vincent- 

Vincent changed the nature of everything just by existing.

 _We have time,_ Chris wanted to say, but Vincent stole his breath and reason with kisses. His hands and mouth exploring hotspots that Chris never knew he had. 

The space behind the shell of his ear, a press of teeth against the junction of throat and clavicle, where his pulse rocketed from resting heart rate to the maximum allowed. As that sensation ebbed, another one crashed in. The scent of that particular tropical wood body wash you only got in the Netherlands filling his nose. 

The air humid with the heat of a thousand open mouthed kisses sheening Chris' torso with sweat as Vincent nipped at Christian’s obliques with the tips of his teeth, before soothing the pain with his tongue. 

Chris' thighs open and trembling with each scratch of Vincent’s beard against the delicate skin there, his quivering hips anchored to the bed with the strength of Vincent’s hands. All the three languages Chris knew with varying degrees of fluency, dissolved from his brain like water on a hot pan left on a burner for too long. 

His hands in Vincent’s hair, unable to say what he wanted. Tremors rolling through him with every gust of breath, unable to stop his hips rutting at the air, Vincent’s fingers sinking and bruising into skin and bone as he held Chris' rocking hips in place. 

Chris’ eyes tearing up with the effort of keeping himself together, beyond caring about him begging for Vincent to end this torture, but praying that he kept going. 

When Vincent’s mouth closed around his cock, wet and hot, Cris’ eyes slammed shut against all five senses tearing at every cell of his body. His mouth filled with the taste of the salt of Vincent’s skin, his heart beat a war drum in his ears, his fingers tugging at the short silk of Vincent’s hair. His eyes blind to everything but Vincent’s head bobbing between his thighs, the air thick with the scent of them.

***

International break came after three games. Before the team could even be mad at themselves for losing two points to Burnley’s last minute snatch and grab, international duty whisked most of them away, their focus sharpening outside of their club.

After being shut out of the Euros last summer, _Landsholdet_ now back with a vengeance, Chris the mighty beating heart and lungs of the midfield. His form and _Landsholdet_ 's results blowing people away, garnering him column inches in the dailies and gasps from social media. 

Not like _that_ mattered, just wins did. 

Then, at the end of it, in the dressing room, when he stripped down to shower, he pressed at the bruises Vincent left behind, on his hips and arse, still stark and proud as tattoos against the expanse of pale skin. 

“Someone’s had a good time,” Nicklas pointed in the general direction of Chris’ groin, where his towel hung around his hips. 

“Good night, Niklas,” Chris shook his head, not saying anything more. Not that he had anything against Niklas. He showed up for _Landsholdet_ when called, and pulled the odd rabbit out of the hat. 

“Russia, here we come!” Niklas screamed, because well, he was Niklas. He drew cheers and yells from the rest of the squad. Chris didn’t get too involved with the celebrations, he’d been burnt too much by his experience with Spurs to bet on a sure thing.

***

As soon as Chris stepped through customs and made his way to the waiting taxi by the curb, his phone started going off.

International break now over, everyone returning to their parent clubs. Chris luxuriating in the feel of his own clothing; not the livery of country or club or sponsor. A light jacket with simple T, jeans, and trainers. He didn’t look at his phone until he’d taken the time to say hi to the driver. 

He scrolled through the messages, drawing a sharp breath and tutted at Dele’s one fingered salute in the direction of the referee (and Kyle Walker). Fingers massaging at his left temple, Chris shook his head with a kind of resignation. When it came to Dele, there was always something. Never mind that he already had to sit out three European matches for Spurs in this season’s Champions’ League, but now looking at four matches for his country?

Dele was a great lad, possessed an undeniable talent but... this was outrageous, even for him. 

The other messages on the phone a bit staid compared to that; _who said International break was boring?_.

It was fine, Chris unwound his headphones and plugged it into his phone, ready to listen to some music on the phone until a message chimed. 

His heart stuttering at the notification, the corner of his mouth swinging up before he could control it. 

As _if_ he could control the upswing of mood on seeing Vincent’s name. Tapping on the message to read: _Ik hoop je binnekort te zien?_

Stupid, Chris knew, to be glowing like the Christmas lights along Oxford Street at such a simple message. Especially stupid to be feeling like this, because the January window opened five months from now. 

To start this thing with Vincent wasn’t big nor clever, as the English would say.

***

Not big, nor clever, the words a taunt at Chris as he stepped on the training field the next day. Vincent already on the pitch, laughing and joking with everyone else. As much as the English media seemed to have it in for Vincent, everyone in the team was willing him to come good.

Eric greeting Vincent with a high five and a half hug, and they half jogged, half ran on the pitch, everyone getting into position a few minutes before Pochettino and his brain trust came on the scene. 

Toby’s arm around Vincent’s shoulder, and said something that made him laugh. A full bodied thing that caused him to throw his head back, Chris studying the lines of Vincent's throat, remembering how he'd traced it with tongue and teeth the last time they'd spent together. Chris wished that Vincent could be half as relaxed on the field of play as he was in practice around everyone in training. Or half as relaxed as when they’d - 

The thought flittered away on wings as Vincent broke away from a cluster of players as he stepped away twisting his torso left and right. 

On the second twist, their eyes meeting, their gazes locked. Chris felt the heat of his blush licking from his neck to his cheeks and - 

“Hey, hey, superstar of _Landsholdet_ ,” Jan threw his arm around Chris’ shoulders, and Chris went along with it. 

“As if I didn’t see your wonder goal, _Jan_.”

“Let’s just say, I’m glad that Barcelona is going after Coutinho, and not you,” Jan ruffled his hair. Chris held up his hand, batting away at Jan’s efforts.

“Hey!”

“Also,” Jan dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “you shouldn’t stare.”

“I’m not staring.”

At Jan’s chuckle, Chris knew that he’d been rumbled. “That’s the wrong answer, Chris. You should have said, _What am I staring at?_.”

“Ah, okay," Chris played along, "What am I staring at?”

“Later, Chris.”

***

“You turned down the loans?” Chris asked, his voice sharp with no end of surprise. “ _Why_?”

Vincent answered with a quick shrug of the shoulders. They were at Chris’ house this time, in the kitchen, heating up the meals that the cook had prepared for them at Enfield training centre. On the counter, the coffee machine happily gurgling away, the air rich with the coffee Vincent had carried back from his short stint in the Netherlands while with the national team. 

“I want to stay and fight for my place,” Vincent explained as if it were the most natural thing. He leaned against the kitchen island, resting his body on his elbows, his eyes flashing with defiance. 

“Vince-” Chris started, not knowing what to say because Vincent had his own advisors. On the other hand, he _had_ to say something, even if just as a friend. “I can understand not wanting to go to Stoke, and West Bromwich is probably no place for a striker under Pullis, but they’re building something interesting, and Brighton is-”

“I’m not leaving,” and there was the steel that might have attracted Chris much more than he cared to admit. He knew Vince’s moods by now, the set of his jaw, the flash of spirit in his eyes.

***

“Are you disappointed?” Vincent asked, much much later, as they bundled in front of the TV in Chris’ living room, their bodies a tangle of limbs on the sofa, dressed in comfy bed clothes.

“No,” Chris pressed his lips against Vincent’s hair. “I do admire your fight.”

“ _Maar_?”

“You shouldn’t have just said no.”

“Too late now,” Vincent said, lifting his head up, inching closer to Chris, his eyes warm and soft. “I’ll be here for a while.”

“Until January, anyway,” Chris quipped, drawing Vincent closer, his eyes drifting closed as they kissed, and kissed again. They had five months together, starting now.

***

The next day summed up in the words of that infamous meme: _Bitch, you thought_.

“Hey, Eriksen,” this was Harry as soon Chris stepped out into the training centre. Vincent had left the comfort of their bed earlier to attend an early meeting with Pochettino. The rest of the team got orders to come in around mid morning and Chris had taken advantage of it, even though two and a half hours before, he’d protested at Vincent having to leave. 

_“It’s still early,” Chris grumbled._

_“I know,” Vincent rubbed Chris’ back, long firm strokes from shoulders to the base of his spine that made Chris sigh with the decadence of it. Vincent had a knack for massage, knowing where to knead the hard knots of muscle and turn it into the texture of melted taffy. “But I have to go.”_

_Chris hooked his fingers in the waist of Vincent’s boxers, tugging him down to him. “Before you go,” he murmured, pressing his lips against his._

_”Okay,” Vincent sighed, the warmth in his eyes giving away the fact that he found this pleasurable too, his fingers stroking Chris’ cheek. “Five more minutes.”_

“Harry,” Chris smiled a greeting, warm from a good mood and a love in, his hand raised ready to do their shared handshake - but something in Harry’s face made him pause. 

“Tell me.”

“Vince just got cleared to go to Fenerbahce.”

“Oh?” Chris asked, a chill stealing through his bones. For a minute, he couldn’t speak, his throat closed and dry if someone closed their hand around it, choking off air and water. He expelled a breath, knowing the answer, but he asked the question anyway. “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

_Tomorrow._

“I thought you’d have wanted to know,” Harry continued in low tones, his eyes solemn. “He’s been sent home.”

The shock must have registered on his face, because Harry clapped a hand on his shoulder. His touch shaking Chris from his stupor. 

“I have to go and change,” Chris stepped away, sorry that his voice came out clipped and cold, but not sorry enough to apologise.

*** 

Chris gave himself over to the matrix of training. Pochettino had new tweaks to his triggers, and subtle changes in shape to accommodate the new players in their midst.

“Hey,” and that was Fernando Llorente, their new signing. “Christian, right?”

“You can call me Chris,” Chris said as they exchanged handshakes as they walked off the pitch after the first of the double training sessions. At seven years his senior, and with all his experience for both clubs and country, Chris didn’t feel in a position to demand anything regarding seniority, but he appreciated the fact that Fernando asked. 

“‘Nando,” Fernando smiled, his manner easy, his accented English crisp and pleasant. “It’s been great working with you so far. You remind me of Siggy-”

If Chris had been in a better frame of mind, he would have mined for comparisons in their game, and would have asked, “Who’s better?” although he knew the answer. Chris might have been better, but Sigurdsson was as consistent as a metronome - and that was the target he and Pochettino decided that he’d meet this year. 

Instead, Chris changed the subject and they spoke about other things.

***

“I leave for Fenerbahce tomorrow,” Vincent said by way of greeting. Chris leaned in the door frame, using the time to catch his breath. He’d run from his car, and up the side stairs because he didn’t bother to wait for the lift as soon as Vincent buzzed him in.

Once he got to the threshold, he leaned against the doorbell until Vincent answered the door, his face cold and set with resignation. 

“I know.”

Vincent shrugged his shoulders. Of course, when it came to players moving or coming, it would spread through the team like wildfire. Also, when it came to Vincent, it hadn’t been a matter of if he’d move, but when. 

Although the thought was fair, it didn’t seem any less treacherous, and Chris’ face pinked with embarrassment. 

“As long as you know,” Vincent stepped back to close the door to his flat. 

“Vince-” Chris stretched out his hand, blocking the door from swinging closed. Stung at his actions, he asked, “Can’t I come in?”

After an indeterminable amount of time - it could have been seconds or hours Chris didn’t know- Vincent stepped aside, and allowed him to come in. 

Chris had been in such a hurry to leave training, he didn’t stop to change his clothing for street clothes. He hadn’t even stopped to shower, kit stinking from his exertions, but it honestly couldn’t be helped. 

Vincent’s flat seemed emptier now than when Chris first visited. Vincent had his carry on zipped open on the coffee table in the front room. Half of the carry on already packed and moving boxes in the corner. 

“ _Het spijt me_ ,” Chris said, picking up a tee shirt from the sofa, and absently folded it just for his hands to find something to do. 

“Why should you be sorry ?” Vincent placed a shirt against his nose and it must have passed the smell test, because he folded it and threw it in the carry-on. “You were right; I should have said yes to one of the English clubs. Why did I think I still had a chance, and a choice? You read the situation better than I did.”

“Why shouldn’t I-?” Chris stopped, swallowing the bitter edge of his anger. “Because, because... we’re ...” his voice trailed off. What _were_ they? Friends? Friends with a multitude of benefits? People who just happened to be - and he closed his eyes briefly. 

“We’re friends,” Chris finished voice firm. Because at the end of it, no matter what, they were friends first. 

“If you say so.”

Chris ran his hands through his hair, closing his eyes, unable to live with his stink much longer. “I do. Listen, can I use your shower?”

“Sure.”

“Can I nick some clothing too?”

“Sure. You know where everything is.”

Vincent didn’t look up as he continued folding his clothing. Chris spent a few seconds in the doorway, his eyes on Vincent, his mood solemn and focused as he continued packing away clothes for his carry on. After a few minutes, when Vincent didn't look up, Chris drifted to the bathroom.

***

When Chris came out of the shower, he was half surprised to see his phone lit up with missed calls and messages. Unlocked the screen, his throat aching at the messages of support that came through from Jan, Moussa and Toby. But Chris didn’t want to read through all of them, not yet.

He had to speak to Vincent first. 

For one, he was wearing Vincent’s clothes, his own kit stuffed in a long life shopping bag. This thing with Vincent was making him crazy and stupid. 

Vincent’s carry on now zipped up, clothing half packed in boxes. Chris padded into the room and sat down on the sofa beside Vincent. 

“I want to come back after my loan,” Vincent sighed, his eyes half closed, as he looked into the distance. “Although - the stats might be against me.”

Chris didn’t answer because he didn’t need to. 

Premier League players who went to the Turkish League to play, never returned at the level they left the Premier League at. Soldado, one of the former players who now plied his trade there, had stints with Tottenham Hotspur and Villarreal, only to find himself at Fenerbahce. 

“I’d like to say, _I’ll be here when you get back,_ but, you know football.” 

“I know.” 

There were so many things Chris wanted to say, so many emotions colliding in his mind like unruly footballs being kicked and bounced against each other. 

“I should get going,” Chris patted Vincent on his thigh, “you have a long day ahead of you tomorrow, and -”

Vincent’s hand now on top of his, and Chris turned his hand over, palm up, threading their fingers together. “I’ll miss you. I’ll miss London and everyone else at the club, but -” and he gave one of those soft smiles that were precious and rare. “I’ll miss you, _Christiaan_.”

Chris rested his head against the headrest of the sofa, staring at the blank screen of the TV, wondering how they ended up like this. 

You daren't wish for anything in football because football could be cruel. 

At times, the gods of the sport didn’t even reward hard work appropriately. 

Still, Chris said what lay on his heart, because if Vincent could be brave, Chris couldn’t do any less. He stared at Vincent, etching all of his features to memory: his high forehead with faint furrow lines, how his eyebrows beetled over his eyes when he frowned. His scruff on the lower half of his face the same rich chestnut colour as his hair. 

Clearing his throat, his voice tight on the edge of cracking, he said, “I wish we’d had more time.”

Vincent’s fingers now against his lips, his eyes huge and luminous. “Do you have to go now?”

Chris didn’t pause to think, as he shook his head, “No.”

***

**B/R Twitter: BREAKING: Fenerbahce confirm that they have reached an agreement to sign Vincent Janssen on loan from Tottenham. Arrives in Istanbul today.**

***

_On the day of Vincent's transfer; late afternoon, after double training_

Chris pushed the door to his locker shut, and trekked towards his car. He felt as if he’d been running in jelly all day. A fraction of a second behind everyone else, his brain fogged with images of how he’d spent the night before; touching and kissing Vincent everywhere, enjoying the bittersweet pleasure of being kissed and touched in return as their time together ticked away. Pochettino wondered aloud if Chris were at risk of catching the flu- and Chris didn’t feel like swaying his opinion otherwise. 

Truth be told, he’d felt similarly under the weather, not able to shift this mood. Vincent halfway to Fenerbahce SK by now. For today only, he told himself, he had Vincent’s name in Google alerts, watching in almost real time as social media updated his very movement. 

Not that football answered wishes, but it didn’t stop Chris from sending a few into the universe: _I hope you do well, Vince. I hope you come back. I hope we will play together again in the future_

***

Chris wasn’t one for wine, but when Jan and Mousa’s significant others organised the meals while their men settled down to play Settlers of Catan, he opted for wine because it gave him something to do with his hands, as well as brood. September evenings felt shorter and colder already, and Chris sat outside, on a bench just outside of the conservatory.

The combined laughter of adults and children soothed his spirit. That after last night and this morning, life continued, even if he wanted it to go differently. 

“I know you miss him,” and that was the voice of Jan, hitting his ear before he actually appeared out of the shadows with a bottle of pale ale in his hand. 

“Don’t you?” 

“Yeah, but it seems to have hit you harder than most. I know you invested a lot of time working with him-”

“A bad story needs an ending,” Chris sipped at his wine, trying not to be bitter. “Wasn’t that what you lot said? It’s an ending.”

“Janssen wasn’t a bad player and we aren’t a bad club,” Jan sat on the bench beside Chris, their thighs close enough for Chris to feel the heat pumping off Jan’s body. “We were just a bad fit. It happens, you know? Probably if he’d rocked up to Spurs in 2013, we would have been at the level to receive him then, but not now. We're too good, and we need to get better.”

“That-”

“Is true,” Jan pointed out, “just not fair. Which isn’t one and the same. We’ve moved on. You don’t have to _like_ it, just understand it.”

Chris stretched out his legs before him, crossed his ankles. Taking in the garden dotted with fanciful Chinese lanterns, and a pond at the end of it. What separated them from the neighbours were ivy covered walls, which gave the garden the air of a secret. 

“I do,” Chris put his glass of wine down on the bench beside him, staring into the darkening garden. 

“Besides, Vincent is AZ, eh? We should hate them on principle.”

“Says the man who calls Moussa Dembele one of his closest friends.”

“Ha, yes,” Jan gave a short bark of laughter, before sobering quickly. “Listen, Vincent... He’ll be fine. He might not end up at Spurs, or even back in the PL- but he’ll be fine. People have to find their own paths, Chris. You can’t make space for everyone. And if you’re making space for him, you have to figure out why.”

“Okay.” 

“Okay,” Jan expelled a breath, looking so relieved, Chris guessed that Jan lost an epic round of _paper, rock, scissors_ , his punishment having to come outside and find out what bothered Chris exactly. “So glad we had this talk. Are you coming in for _Settlers of Catan_ as yet? We’re setting up the board.”

“Soon,” Chris waved Jan off, Jan’s words illuminating Chris’ feelings than he knew. 

_You can’t make space for everyone. And if you’re making space for him, you have to figure out why._

Slipping his phone out of his pocket, Chris typed out a message, _Ik mis je al. Voor altijd_

 

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

>   * Hey, Driz, I know the rare pair feels, so here’s a fic for your rare pair that you’ll never have to write. Enjoy, mate! 
>   * Also! The Dutch is really dodgy. All mistakes are mine, all mine. Apologies in advance.
>   * Thanks to penalteaze for giving this the once over (because my fics don't always make sense).
>   * Notes: Vincent Janssen came to Tottenham in the 2016/17 season as a backup to Harry Kane. His season didn't go too well, and word has it that the club wanted to send Janssen on loans to [one](http://www.birminghammail.co.uk/sport/football/transfer-news/west-brom-tottenham-transfers-janssen-13576031) of the three mentioned clubs in this fic. He said no, and [other clubs like Lille passed on him, because they had questions about his technique](https://www.standard.co.uk/sport/football/lille-turned-down-move-for-tottenham-flop-vincent-janssen-due-to-doubts-over-technique-a3629766.html). [He left Tottenham for Fenerbahce](http://www.mirror.co.uk/sport/football/transfer-news/vincent-janssen-end-tottenham-nightmare-11132228) on Sept 04.
>   * Landsholdet - what the Danes call their men's National Football team 
>   * ETA: There's an accompanying fic to this [Komt Goed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12289902) if you wish to read 
> 


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Space Inbetween [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12119250) by [ItsADrizzit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit/pseuds/ItsADrizzit)




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